40 days and 40 nights.
My beer is gone, this really bites.
The tipping point has passed its mark.
I’m sneaking out right after dark.

The moon is out and shows my path.
No more wine and bubble baths.
Old Billy Bob his sheds in view.
It’s time to sample his bitter brew.

An underground tavern out in the woods.
Home-made beer now understood.
A roll for loo you best have got.
Billy’s beer will make you squat.

Down the hatch and out the rear.
The family genius it would appear.
This secret brew spreads far and wide.
With no regard for one’s backside.